The best part.
The only part.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know everyone’s name yet. What is your name?”
“Oh. Abigail Evans. Everyone calls me Abbie, with anie.” She smiled, happy to make my acquaintance, having no idea of the significance of her name.
“Beautiful name.” I cleared the frog in my throat. “I knew someone once with that name. I’m sure she would’ve been as nice and as sweet as you. Thanks for coming to class.” I excused her with a nod.
Abbie with an ie.
The grandfather clock in the hallway rang nine o’clock, and I said, “Good morning. Everyone have a nice weekend?”
There was a cacophony of grumbles and sighs.
“Well, mine was about the same. So, let’s get down to business.” I shoved any memories of Aiken kissing me to the far recesses of my mind and any remaining lust down to the pit of my stomach.
“Let’s talk nature versus nurture. Show of hands, are we a product of our environment?”
A smattering of hands went up around the midsize lecture hall.
“What about genetics? Who believes their pull is stronger when it comes to behavior?”
A larger display of hands went up.
“When I was young, I used to believe that too. That our inherent makeup made up for more than our environments. It was an easy way to excuse poor decisions and behavior. Can anyone give me an example of what I’m saying?”
Abbie’s hand shot up. “Well, let’s say you have unprotected sex with a bunch of people and find out you’re pregnant. Then you go and say you were manic or whatever. This wasn’t your fault, then…but manic has become so commonplace in being used to describe behavior. It can’t be that so many people are manic. It takes away from the true diagnosis, which is a nature thing.”
I moved in front of the lectern and down into the aisle, constant motion helped to keep my feelings at bay. Sweet, little Abbie basically just described my life, except for the multiple-partners part. It was only David, anywhere and everywhere, with or without condoms, until I realized I was preggo. Then, I told my mom, it had been a lapse in my judgment. The urge to have unprotected sex must’ve been the result of a mood swing or something. After all, my dad was in and out of the funny farm.
It wasn’t a mood swing. It was stupid lust.
“Good example,” I complimented Abbie. “If someone is truly manic, they don’t know enough to blame poor choices or actions on that episode. Either they’re in the moment or out of the state.”
The class went on to debate the topic, and I felt myself pull together. This was where I belonged, teaching, explaining, sharing my opinions on what I knew.
There was nature, but nurture was always everything.
Why else would someone blow up a stadium full of young people? Yeah, he or she could’ve had a screw loose, but someone had enabled that person to do something as grotesque as what happened to Abby.
Anyway, that was my only theory, and I needed to hold on tight to it.
On my way home, I stopped off-campus for a sugared latte something or other, comfort in a cup, and found myself on my back steps, guzzling the last dregs of it while Smitty relieved himself on a bush.
“Hey there, tough guy.”
Without turning, I asked, “You talking to me?”
“Nope, talking to your dog. He’s nicer.”
“Oh.” My shoulders fell a bit. I tried to resurrect my stance, unsure why I sought Aiken’s good graces or attention at all.
“Tough day?”
“Are you talking to my dog still?” Still resisting eye contact, I stared at my empty cup as if it held all the answers in life.
“Not this go-round. How you doing, Claire?”
